The Welshman's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  And then her heart started to race, for she heard Dylan’s steps upon the stairs.

  The door to the room opened and he came inside. Closing the door softly, he turned to face her—and she gasped.

  “Are you wounded?” she cried at the sight of his bloody clothes as she scrambled from the bed and rushed toward him.

  “No, that’s lambs’ blood,” he replied wearily, holding out his hands to prevent her coming closer.

  “We found an ewe whose lamb had died, and another who had given birth to twins,” he explained as he walked toward the tub. “Hill sheep can forage plenty to provide milk for one lamb, but not two. So we cut the skin off the dead lamb and made a little cloak for one of the twins, which we put close to the mother of the dead lamb. They smell the skin and thinks it’s their baby, you see, so they allow the new lamb to suckle. In a few days, we take off the skin and the ewe accepts it as her own.”

  He stripped off his soiled tunic.

  As Genevieve went to uncover the tub, she tried to keep her teeth from chattering, for the stone floor was frigid on her bare feet. “I hope the water is not too cold.”

  “Anwyl, I stink—so it doesn’t matter if it’s as cold as that stream you pushed me in that day.”

  “I didn’t—you slipped.”

  “Well, I don’t remember much of that. It’s you behind the bush sticks in my mind.”

  “I recall that you flailed about like a demented bird.”

  He smiled wryly as he put one hand on the rim of the tub to steady himself and tugged off his boots. “Well, it was some day, anyway.”

  He straightened, stretching. “God’s wounds, a lot of lambs is an excellent thing, but it’s tiring when they come so fast together. We’ve got at least six black ones this year.”

  “Oh?”

  He glanced at her. “Your lips are turning blue, my love. Go, you, to the bed and warm yourself—unless you’d rather join me in the tub?”

  She swallowed as he slowly, and quite immodestly, peeled off his breeches. “No, no, I will wait for you in bed.”

  “Whatever you prefer,” he said with a chuckle.

  He sucked in his breath as he stepped into the tub. “God’s wounds, this is cold.”

  “Perhaps you should—”

  She fell silent when he started to splash the water all over himself. And the linen. And the floor.

  “Dylan?”

  “What?” he answered, looking at her questioningly.

  Forgetting about the slopped water, she started to laugh.

  “What?”

  “With that expression and your hair in your eyes, you look like a wet sheep.”

  “A wet sheep, is it?”

  He climbed out of the tub and ran to the bed, jumping on it dripping-wet and naked.

  “Dylan!” she cried, scrambling to sit up and get away from him. “You’re soaking.”

  “Then help me get dry,” he replied, burrowing under the covers.

  “But you’ll get everything wet.”

  His response was a muffled. “So what?”

  “Dylan, what...what are you doing?”

  His head popped out from beneath the covers, a devilish gleam in his eyes.

  “I have not forgot what we are hoping to do tonight, Genevieve,” he said, pulling her down beside him. “Come, wife, let’s make a baby.”

  But they did not. Not that night, or the next, or any time through the whole of the following year, until Genevieve felt that if Angharad’s words had not been prophetic, they had been a curse.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Genevieve stood at the window of her bedchamber and watched her husband in the courtyard below, laughing as he tried to teach Trefor and Arthur how to heft a broadsword. The children did not have real weapons, but ones made of wood that Dylan himself had fashioned during the winter. Silently she had watched him lovingly cut, carve and smooth them, while she sewed on a tapestry to cover one of the bare walls in the hall.

  In the first months after her marriage, she had optimistically made baby clothes. By the end of summer, she had put the finished clothes and the fabric intended for more in the chest in the corner of the bedchamber, and they had lain there ever since.

  “No, no, no,” she heard Dylan admonish jovially. “Like this. Feet apart. Bent knees. Loose in the limbs, not stiff as an iron rod!”

  He had been trying to get Arthur to stand thus for quite some time, yet he still possessed patience. She surveyed the rest of the courtyard, and saw Cait standing near the well as she watched the lesson, an admiring smile on her pretty young face.

  What was not to admire about Dylan, from his handsome face to his muscular legs, with the music in his laughter and the virility he seemed to exude with every breath?

  He, too, realized he had an audience and called out something to Cait in Welsh, something Genevieve could not quite follow, for she still lacked anything approaching facility in her husband’s native tongue. Whatever it was, though, it made Cait blush and giggle before she lifted her bucket and sauntered toward the kitchen, her hips swaying.

  Genevieve turned away from the window, rubbing her temples and beginning to pace as she so often did these days. Her head didn’t hurt; she was not unwell; yet more and more she found herself staying in her bedchamber, alone, walking back and forth as if doing so would make her feel better.

  She had things to do, of course, that forced her to go to the hall and other parts of the castle. Orders to give and tasks to assign, with the result that the storerooms and chambers in the castle were a model of neatness with which even Lady Katherine herself could not have found fault.

  At all times now, the servants did their jobs well and with dispatch, if without the levity that her husband’s presence always seemed to engender among them.

  Which was as it should be. Lady Katherine had emphasized again and again that the chatelaine of a castle must be respected if she wanted obedience and deference.

  What Lady Katherine had not explained, Genevieve thought bitterly, was that it meant nobody seemed to like you.

  Of course, respect and orderliness were important. And, Genevieve knew, if she could have a baby, she would be happy whether the servants liked her or not.

  Occasionally, to break what was beginning to seem monotony, they had guests at Beaufort, the baron and his wife most often.

  She had written to her mother’s brother, the bishop, and as a result a new priest with impeccable education and a most appropriately holy manner had come to Beaufort. Of course, he was rather arrogant and aloof to the Welsh, but that was to be expected of a man who had been to Rome.

  He didn’t seem to mind being treated as an outsider.

  Trystan remained at the castle of Sir Hu Morgan, although the baron expected to have his youngest son home later in the spring.

  At least Angharad had not come to the castle again, and for that Genevieve was grateful.

  She went to the door, flinging it open, determined to find something with which to occupy her mind, or at least see what Cait was up to.

  She nearly walked right into Dylan.

  “Ho, there, my lady!” he cried, grabbing her by the shoulders.

  His gaze searched her face, as it always did these days.

  “I should find out about the flour. Elidan can never seem to understand that I want the best, not the cheapest,” she said, sounding peevish even to herself.

  “That can wait,” Dylan replied, leading her back into their bedchamber. “I have some news.”

  “Oh?”

  He didn’t look directly at her. “Llannulid is with child.”

  Not by Dylan.

  That was the first thought to spring into her mind.

  “How wonderful,” she replied evenly.

  Dylan had been half-afraid to tell her about Llannulid, yet that fear seemed groundless as Genevieve continued to speak without any appearance of dismay, except for the haunted look that lurked in her eyes these days.

  “When is the baby due
?”

  “The autumn.”

  “Did Thomas tell you this?”

  “No, it was little Gwethalyn. I met her with her mother in the village when I went to see what was keeping Arthur, and she told me she was going to have a baby sister. She can hardly wait.”

  He made a little smile. “She is so convinced it is a girl, I hope for her sake she’s right.”

  “We wouldn’t want anyone disappointed,” Genevieve agreed.

  Dylan frowned slightly at her tone, then he tried to dismiss it.

  “Where was Arthur?”

  “He spent the night with Trefor and Angharad. Mair had...company.”

  “Another lover?”

  “I would think so.”

  “Who?”

  Dylan shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “Will she never marry?” Genevieve asked, and this time there was no denying that she sounded annoyed.

  “She claims she would rather have six pigs in the house than a husband,” he replied, quite truthfully.

  Nevertheless, Dylan almost wished he were with Mair, missing her honest frankness and spirited lovemaking.

  He did not know precisely when it had happened, for it had been a gradual process, yet for some time now, his loving of Genevieve had become another duty she expected done, and done efficiently, as if it were only a task to be completed, or a chore to accomplish.

  “I suppose we should be grateful she sends Arthur away when she decides to entertain a man.”

  “Genevieve!”

  “I say only what any decent person would.”

  “She’s not a whore.”

  His wife raised her eyebrows. “She only acts like one.”

  Dylan sighed wearily. He was in no humor to get into an argument today. They argued far too much as it was, about things both minor and major.

  Indeed, Genevieve had grown so quicktempered of late, he had taken to staying out of the hall to avoid her.

  And although he was quite sure he knew the source of her constant irritability, he was getting profoundly tired of making excuses for her. “I think it’s time we went on a journey.”

  “Where?”

  “Craig Fawr.”

  “Why?”

  “We have not been there since Christmas.”

  “I would rather not.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “We will have to go sometime, and we have left it late enough as it is.”

  When she didn’t answer, he went to her, speaking softly, yet with firmness, too. “Griffydd’s wife nearly died having the twins. Don’t you think it’s time we went to see her, aye, and the babies, too? You are always talking about duty and responsibility. It is our duty—and my wish—mat we go, and I want to do so before the spring gathering.”

  Still she did not speak, and he put his arm around her. “Genevieve?”

  She shrugged off his embrace. “Very well, my lord, we will go, as it is your wish and our duty.”

  “Good.”

  “When will we leave?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Will you have servants accompany us? Cait, perhaps?”

  “No, just us—unless you would prefer the company?”

  “Not I.”

  He turned to go and glanced back at her expectantly, waiting for her to leave with him.

  “I have one more thing to do here before I set the servants to preparing for the journey.”

  He nodded, taking some satisfaction from his success, then went to tell Thomas of his decision and offer his congratulations.

  When he had gone on his way, Genevieve went to the chest in the corner. She reached into the bottom and pulled out two of the infants’ garments she had made. They were little gowns, embroidered and carefully stitched, that would do for gifts for Griffydd’s twin sons.

  Three children in only two years of marriage...

  She ran her hands over the soft fabric, then slowly she sank to her knees, clutching the tiny garments to her breasts that would never suckle a child.

  And wept.

  “So, Trystan is coming home, is he?” Dylan remarked to his elder cousin as they sat in the hall of Craig Fawr three days later. “It’s about time.”

  “He had his reasons for staying so long with Hu, I’m sure,” Griffydd replied, glancing at the far end of the hall, where his wife, Seona, sat near the warmth of the hearth.

  Dylan followed his gaze, to see their eldest son on Seona’s knee and the two cradles beside her. Lady Roanna was also there, cooing over the infants and, Dylan knew, keeping a paternally watchful eye on Seona lest she overtax her strength.

  “Where is Genevieve?”

  “Still dressing, I suppose.”

  “She was not in the hall to break the fast.”

  “No, these days she lingers at mass.”

  “Ah.”

  Dylan gave his cousin a look. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all,” Griffydd replied, a look of genuine surprise flickering in his gray eyes.

  Dylan leaned back in his chair.

  “Forgive me, Griffydd,” he said with a sigh. “I’m out of sorts today.”

  Griffydd fixed his shrewd and intense gaze on him. “Something is wrong with Genevieve. What is it?”

  “Only the strain of being married to me, I sure.”

  His cousin ignored his attempt at levity. “Is she ill?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t sound very concerned.”

  “She takes her responsibilities very seriously, so she always looks tired and worried.”

  “I would say it is more than that.”

  “So now you are like Angharad?”

  “I make no claim to be a seer.”

  “Good.”

  “Yet something is the matter with her—and you, too, I think.”

  “Oh, so now there is something wrong with both of us, says the man who tells me he is no seer.”

  “Dylan, she looks as if she hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks, and you scarcely much more. You haven’t...?”

  “Haven’t what?” Dylan asked in a low, cold voice.

  “She has no reason to doubt your fidelity?”

  Dylan slowly rose. “If another man said that to me, I would kill him.”

  Griffydd also got to his feet, gazing steadfastly at his cousin. “You cannot be surprised that one would have such a thought, given your past.”

  “What of her past? Perhaps she is unfaithful to me.”

  “Is she?”

  “No.”

  “Then what is it?” Griffydd demanded.

  Dylan scowled. “If I don’t wish to discuss what should rightly be between only my wife and myself, I suppose you will be having your father take me aside for a paternal chat.”

  “You look like you need it.”

  “Maybe I should wait for him, then.”

  One of the babies started to wail, and both men paused to watch Seona hand her toddler to Lady Roanna and then pick up the hungry infant to put to her breast.

  Griffydd turned back to regard Dylan with his unnerving stare. “She wants a baby desperately.”

  “I should think three would satisfy her.”

  “I was not meaning Seona, and you know it.”

  “Aye, I know it, and I know what Genevieve craves better than you.”

  “I want to help.”

  “And how would you do that? Perhaps you think you have so many children, you can spare one to give us, like giving a twin lamb to a ewe who’s lost hers. Unfortunately, we are not sheep.”

  “Dylan,” Griffydd growled in a warning tone.

  “I suppose I should have used rabbits for a better example.”

  Griffydd’s hands balled into fists. “That is amusing, coming from you.”

  “Or maybe you think that you should take my place in Genevieve’s bed?”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  “Do you think you could do better? Or perhaps, after all your condemnation
s for my behavior in the past, you think it is fitting recompense that I have a barren wife?”

  “Dylan!”

  At the sound of his name gasped with pain and incredulity, he whirled around to see Genevieve standing nearby, her pale face growing paler.

  “Genevieve, I—”

  She ran past him, past Griffydd, past the women and the babies and out of the hall.

  Dylan cursed softly and hurried after her. Unfortunately, the courtyard was crowded with servants, tenants, merchants and workmen on this fine day, and he could not see which way she had gone.

  Nevertheless, he would find her and try to apologize for what he had said.

  Although he more than half believed he had finally given voice to the truth.

  Regardless of the chill in the air and the dampness, Genevieve sat on a fallen log near the bank of the river that ran past Craig Fawr. She had made her way through the village and into the wood knowing only that she wanted to be alone, and away from there.

  Away from the women and babies.

  Away from Griffydd’s grave, gray eyes.

  And most of all, away from Dylan.

  She heard the sound of a horse nearby and rose quickly, wiping her tearstained face with the hem of her skirt. She was still close enough to the village that a scream would summon help, so she wasn’t afraid of an attack.

  “Genevieve?” the horseman called out. “Lady Genevieve?”

  “Greetings, Sir Trystan.”

  The young man slipped from his saddle and threw his horse’s reins over a nearby bush. “For a moment, I thought my eyes had deceived me.”

  “I didn’t expect to meet you here, either.”

  She watched him approach. In the year since she had last seen him, he had changed somehow.

  He was yet the same height and build; his hair still brushed his shoulders, like that of all the DeLanyea men.

  It was his face that had altered. It had lost the look of youth, somehow.

  “What are you doing here, and alone?” he asked, running. a scrutinizing gaze over her.

  Unsure what the change in him meant, she said, “We came to visit your family.”

  Trystan halted a few feet from her. “I assumed that much. I meant what are you doing here in the wood all by yourself?”